He finds himself driving an old blue ford he used to own when he was a teenager. The seat springs poke into his back at odd uncomfortable angles. There is a searing heat that seems to come from the engine compartment or a heater vent that's open full blast. It feels like his shins are on a slow bake. The landscape outside is washed in sun. There are rocks and scrub brush and naked barbed wire on the side of the road. This has to be West Texas or another more lush state in the aftermath of a nuclear war. The dash is cracked and covered in dust. He turns on the radio, which is AM only. It only gets one station. It comes in with crackles and buzzes like far off lightning strikes. It sounds like talk radio with a fuzzy drift of Mexican music that drops in from time to time like sets of waves on a deserted beach. There is too much sun and his eyes hurt. Not even a windmill breaks the monotony. Far off, he sees a black shape standing by the road. He feels a creeping unease. A dark haired man in an old green coat and jeans has his hand out thumbing a ride. Butch pushes the accelerator and passes him by....
"What these people fail to realize is that...el gallo de cielo...no way that they are ever going..en mi corazoooooooon...a responsibility for their own....y te quiero cada vez.....it's just
class warfare.....por favor no me......completely hate america and the oil.....Bzzzzzz....
amoooooooooor....."
Miles later, he sees the same hitchhiker up ahead holding his thumb out. The car slows down and stops on its own. The man looks in the back before getting in. Butch is not in control. He realizes that this is a dream or a vision
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